


Natural Sympathies: A Supernatural Retelling of ‘Jane Eyre’

by EvelynVerityMarsh



Category: Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë, Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Amnesia, Assassin Castiel, Betrayal, Castiel's True Form, Castiel's youth, Coming of Age, Cormac McCarthy, Discovering humanity, Drama, Earth's early history, Heaven, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Sam Winchester, Kurt Vonnegut, Literary References & Allusions, Literature, Literature student author apparently cannot help herself!, M/M, Poetry, Road Trips, Romance, Shakespeare, Slash, Slow Burn, Team Free Will, castiel's history, who is the woman in the attic?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-10 00:28:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4370177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvelynVerityMarsh/pseuds/EvelynVerityMarsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'This is the hardest thing that Castiel has ever had to do and yet the South Dakota sky is callously lovely above his head.'</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Castiel is not sent to save the Righteous Man from Hell.</p>
<p>Regardless, the Apocalypse has been stopped in its tracks and a single man has murdered both Michael and Lucifer.</p>
<p>Without his Grace and disguised as a human, Castiel is sent past the angel wards on Singer’s Salvage Yard, his mission to kill one Winchester and save the other.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>No knowledge of Jane Eyre is required to enjoy this fic. Follows Castiel from his earliest memories to his final fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: May 6th, 2011

**Author's Note:**

> I blame this fic on books and insomnia and re-watching Michael Fassbender movies in the middle of the night. I have a plan and I think I know where I’m going with this, but please feel free to leave me a request if you have a favourite moment of Jane Eyre that you’d especially like to see Supernaturalised.

# Chapter 01 - Prologue: May 6th, 2011

 

‘I looked neither to rising sun, nor smiling sky, nor wakening nature. He who is taken out to pass through a fair scene to the scaffold, thinks not of the flowers that smile on his road, but of the block and axe-edge; of the disseverment of bone and vein; of the grave gaping at the end: and I thought of drear flight and homeless wandering—and oh! with agony I thought of what I left. I could not help it. I thought of him now—in his room—watching the sunrise; hoping I should soon come to say I would stay with him and be his. I longed to be his.'

**Jane Eyre, Chapter 27**

 

~

 

 **CASTIEL** : I ran away.

 **DEAN** : You ran away?

 **CASTIEL** : I had to.

 **DEAN** : That's your excuse for leaving me…?

 **CASTIEL** : Dean –

 **DEAN** : You bailed out and, what, went camping? I prayed to you, Cas, every night.

 **CASTIEL** : I know.

 **DEAN** : You know and you didn't... What the hell's wrong with you?

**Supernatural: 8x02 – What’s Up, Tiger Mommy**

 

~

 

It is a beautiful night when Castiel leaves the Winchester house. This does not make the action any easier to bear.

The stars should not gleam like crystallised light. The air should not hang warm and clear as though a passing storm has made the world new in its wake. This is the hardest thing that Castiel has ever had to do and yet the South Dakota sky is callously lovely above his head.

Is this how the humans feel, their prayers sent heavenward, placid silence answering? Are they appalled by how little the frail internal wrestlings of their souls disturb the external facets of their world? Grace was Designed to interlace with the physical world in ways that the human soul, precious and contained, never was, but still, this cannot be a uniquely angelic emotion.

When will those he is leaving behind realise that he is gone? Who will be the first to enter his spartan room, the small, efficient space that has felt more like home this past year than any place formerly? Who will find that his few possessions are missing: his coat, his books, his sketchpad? How will they interpret the dust-free space by the ancient hi-fi, lingering evidence of the cassette tapes now nestled in his pocket, which even the iron will driving him from the house could not persuade him to abandon? (The notion of possession, of owning and treasuring inanimate objects for himself, for pleasure, for sentiment - how can such a thing be newer to him than the seeds bursting into dirt-coated flowers along the roadside beneath his feet?)

Will Bobby be the first to notice that he has left? Will he try to soften the initial blow of revelation when he has to divulge the truth?

Will Sam be able to look his brother in the eye when he explains that all their begging has been in vain?

Castiel must go faster, needs to run, needs to be long gone from this roadside by dawn. At the moment he is still so close that, if they notice his absence too soon, he may even yet hear their voices with his borrowed ears, may hear their calls for him amongst the rusted skeletons of broken cars. He knows he would not be strong enough to endure such a thing. One syllable in any of those voices could pause him forever, would tie him here more surely than any ring of holy fire. If he is very lucky, he will be many miles from Singer's Salvage Yard by the time he feels that constant grace-tug of tremendous longing shatter and burn into the unendurable agony of a man he would give worlds not to wound.

Castiel would rather cut off his own wings, but there are some duties that cannot be shirked.

Numbly, he holds out his thumb to the fast approaching lights of a night truck and hopes he is correctly observing the ritual of hitchhiking. He hopes that the internal knowledge that he will never see Dean Winchester’s face again does not crack the diamond hard line of his composure as he converses with the driver.

He pulls himself up into the dimly-lit cabin and leaves the name ‘Castiel’ lying on the road in South Dakota.


	2. Childhood: Doorways to Other Worlds

# Chapter 02

# Childhood: Doorways to Other Worlds

 

‘John had not much affection for his mother and sisters, and an antipathy to me. He bullied and punished me; not two or three times in the week, nor once or twice in the day, but continually: every nerve I had feared him, and every morsel of flesh in my bones shrank when he came near. There were moments when I was bewildered by the terror he inspired, because I had no appeal whatever against either his menaces or his inflictions; the servants did not like to offend their young master by taking my part against him, and Mrs. Reed was blind and deaf on the subject: she never saw him strike or heard him abuse me, though he did both now and then in her very presence, more frequently, however, behind her back.’

**Jane Eyre, Chapter 1**

 

~

 

 **CASTIEL** : “It’s called the Axis Mundi. It’s a path that runs through heaven. Different people see it as different things. For you, it’s two-lane asphalt. The road will lead you to the Garden.”

**Supernatural: 5x16 – The Dark Side of the Moon**

 

~

**Many Thousands of Years Ago**

Castiel slipped along the Axis Mundi on small and silent wings. He trembled at the idea of discovery, at the feel of unseen eyes pressing in on him. The path was empty, but Raphael's taste for casual cruelty was matched only by his impatience for prolonged conversations with Michael. It had been some time since the Lord of Heaven had drawn the other angels of the Reeds to him, archangel Grace interweaving with archangel Grace in the possessive pull of brotherhood. Raphael would be the first to disentangle himself from Communion, an activity for which he had little affection, and would begin looking to vent his bored frustration upon his favourite target. Castiel needed to find a hiding place soon or risk being caught in the open.

The Reeds stood at the centre of Heaven’s Garden, towering bulrushes leaning gently over the enormous Lake that was the epicentre of their Father’s throne room. It was the fixed and central point of all Creation. Rivers and tributaries ran out from it, paths that looked different to every creature that beheld them, steering away in all directions. If one knew the route and the turns to take then one could travel anywhere from the Reeds: to the fires of Hell, to prison cells of Heaven or, as today, to the twisting Axis Mundi where the souls of those bizarre, new creatures called humans were housed after their deaths. There were even low-whispered rumours amongst those angels whose job it was to serve the Reeds’ inhabitants, that there might be a route from the Lake to that unexplored plain called Earth: fresh and new, the last perfect handiwork of God. The Reeds itself however, that was the point from which all Creation flowed and thus was home to the four surviving archangels: Michael, Raphael, Raguel and Sariel.

Four archangels and one outsider they seemed forced to keep, despite their wishes.

Even as Michael had tugged his three younger brothers close and cradled them with his wings, his eyes had landed on the interloper in their midst, the awkward figure hovering hopefully nearby. His voice had echoed in Castiel’s mind like a slap, regal and chilling. “Communion is not for the likes of you, child. It is a rite of family, a powerful thing. It is a privilege only intended for contented angels, confident in their purpose and true to their mission. I regret that you force me to keep you at a distance, but until I can observe a marked improvement in your disposition, I will not subject my brothers to your presence at this time.”

“What have I done?” Castiel asked, wishing he might look away from the touch of Grace that excluded him. “What have I said that was wicked?”

“This for one,” Michael countered with sudden anger. “This propensity to question your superiors, to pry and poke where you should accept and acquiesce to the will of others. You are a common angel living amongst God’s greatest. You, not even of seraph rank, dwell here. It is an honour not given to any other creature in the whole of Creation, yet still you cannot bend yourself to act as an angel should. Be gone from my sight and ensure you have a better character when next I see you.”

Castiel had fled. It was far from the first time that such a scene had transpired, but confused humiliation was not a thing to which he could grow accustomed. He left the Reeds, wishing only to put as much distance between himself and the archangels as possible. It took time for his mind to calm and for the turbulence within him to settle into something more closely resembling his standard resignation. When at last he did begin to notice his surroundings again, he found himself crouched in the relative privacy of the Axis Mundi. It was a habit that was rapidly becoming instinct.

The human race, and by extension the human soul, was still so recent an invention that this place was small, almost quaint and inconsequential in the uniformity of its few doorways. Each time he returned it had grown at least one new door, but this corner of Heaven was as yet of little interest to anyone, except a single angel child who valued this ever growing library of memory-dreams more highly than any other place in Heaven.

To Castiel’s eye the Axis Mundi appeared as a shoreline, a copy of the beach he had visited the only time that angels had been allowed to stand briefly upon the Earth. It was a distant memory, clouded and muddied by the then infancy of his mind. The strange solidness of physical things. The pelting of rain out of the vast emptiness of the sky and salt spray of water lashing wild and windy from the ocean. Watching a little grey fish heave itself onto the sand and the crash of Raphael’s wing sending him stumbling, almost crushing the tiny animal underfoot. “Don’t step on that fish, Castiel. Big plans for that fish.” Raphael’s voice mocking, always mocking, even towards something so sacred.

Soon now, Raphael would separate himself from what he perceived to be the stifling confines of Michael’s embrace and Castiel needed to ensure that he was well hidden by then. The feral bleakness of his Axis Mundi’s shoreline was edged with small wooden huts, each painted with oddly garish colours. They were set with identical white doors and white numbers carved into their faces. Several of them he had entered before.

Door One held a garden: a paradise of green, a menagerie of animals and two souls, wrapped forever in the bliss of each other’s hands and eyes. Their activities, rhythmic and repetitive, were perplexing, even tedious to his way of thinking, but the surrounding profusion of flowers and creatures had captivated his attention for hours.

Door Twelve held a small girl who laughed with delight as the facsimile of her elder brother swung her around and around, utterly secure in her knowledge that he would never let her fall.

Door Twenty belonged to a man whose heaven rung with music. He was the first soul to whom Castiel had dared address himself directly. The man had introduced himself as Jubal then coaxed the reluctant angel into an improvised lesson upon the harp. Even Castiel’s lack of proficiency with the instrument failed to dent the man’s pleasure at having a pupil and Castiel had stayed far longer than he ought.

Today he lingered on the beach of the Mundi, torn between his conflicting desires: to revisit a heaven and let himself wander in comfortable familiarity or to open a new door and let new sights purge unpleasant thoughts from his mind. Before he came to a decision, the luxury of choice was snatched from him, a voice echoing from far behind.

“Apachana![1] Oh, Castiel, Adphaht Aaiom![2] Where are you?” Raphael’s call came from far too close. Panic, cringing and instinctual, seized Castiel as he threw himself against a door at random, barely glimpsing its almost invisible number ‘forty-two’ before slamming it behind him.

The sight that met his eyes drove all thoughts of Raphael away. There was physical pressure on his form. Molecules shifting. Cool air against his wings. Gentle rain rushing out of a sky that arched and bowed simultaneously with clouds. He may have only stood here once before, but his surroundings could no more be mistaken for Heaven than they could be the depths of Hell. By accident or providence, he had discovered the long concealed passage to Earth.

He stood frozen with shock for many moments, watching the golden white light of his Grace appear in physical form for only the second time in his short life. It shone, pierced. It illuminated whilst turning the surrounding trees to silhouettes of themselves. A laugh bubbled out of him, surprised, untamed and wondering, and leaves burst from the trees all around, red and green and gold floating down in a twirling dance of colour. Later on, Castiel would never be able to say exactly how long he stood there; he was lost to all feeling but that of bewildered joy and a desperate sense of belonging that overwhelmed him past the point of ecstasy to the very lip of agony. Unlike his first visit to Earth, this memory would remain clear and untarnished, treasured deep within himself until the very end of his existence.

His distraction was such that he did not remember to fear his pursuer until a portal behind him activated and he was dragged back, sprawling onto the sand of the Axis Mundi. Three figures loomed over him.

“I told you, Raph. He always comes here to hide, the creeping baby.” Raguel did not always concern himself with his brother’s actions regarding the unwanted angel in their home, but when the scathing mood took him he would set to taunting with alacrity. It was only his presence now that had allowed Raphael to find their prey so quickly for the elder certainly would not have managed it by himself, his impatience generally exhausting itself before locating Castiel's most recent hiding place.

“What do you want?” Castiel asked, not meeting their eyes and hoping that maybe he might escape them by fulfilling a simple request. Occasionally they sent him on errands, pretending he was one of their servants, forcing him to perform some pointless task that they could sneer over once it was completed. It was never pleasant, but it was certainly preferable to some of the alternatives.

Raphael drove a quick spike of pain into Castiel’s Grace. “Say, ‘What do you want, my Lords.’” Another spike slashing fast. Raphael had recently discovered an affinity for lightning and never failed to take an opportunity of wielding it. “I want you to get up and stop crawling on the ground like an ape.”

Slowly, Castiel pulled himself upright, all too aware of what was coming and knowing there was no way of stopping it. The three archangels towered over him, their impressive forms dwarfing his into insignificance. There was a dreadful pause during which no one stirred and he tried his best not to cower under their sight.

They moved all at once, too swift to be avoided, Raguel and Sariel shooting forward from either side of their elder brother to seize deep into Castiel’s wings and slam him backwards onto the ground. Raphael stood over them smirking for another long instant, apparently pleased by what he saw, then reaching down to wrench a section of flight feathers from a wing splayed out below him. Castiel shrieked and writhed. Raphael smirked wider and repeated his violence upon the other wing.

“That,” he said moving backwards and tossing the large collection of plucked feathers to the floor, “is for your insolence in questioning Michael earlier.”

Castiel, long used to Raphael’s scorn, made no move to reply. He lay, still pinned and vulnerable, and tried not to whimper at the pain in his wings.

“And what were you doing here, sneaking around in the cages of dead beasts? You know Michael has told you not to come here.” Another stab of electricity. “You know he’s going to punish you and properly this time too, but first…” More electricity. “Show me which door you were looking at.” Raphael waited, clearly expecting an honest and prompt reply. Castiel, for his part, fought his natural inclinations to yield to Raphael, to point immediately to the door he had discovered. Long experience had taught him that resisting Raphael was painful and pointless, generally making shrinking obedience the most favourable option available. But not this time, not that door. Door Forty-Two and its undreamt of passage to Earth would never become known to these three angels if it was in Castiel’s power to conceal it.

Unfortunately… “This was the one, Raph,” Sariel, young and bright and eager to please, called. “This was the door we found him in.”

They left Castiel to move through the entrance themselves and only the extremity of his fear forced him to rise and follow them. He arrived in time to feel the curl of Raphael’s displeasure against the shocking return of physical sensation. “You came here?” asked Raphael. “You came where only archangels are now allowed to walk? You dared lay your blasphemous eye on the world that archangels will rule? Curious were you? Thought it was pretty, did you? I’ll give you pretty!” And with that, Raphael’s spite rained down upon the surrounding country.

Lighting cracked the face of the sky into a hundred pieces before striking the ground. Every tree burst into flame, bright leaves singeing to ash in a moment. Delicate, intricate, harmonious beauty bubbled into molten smoke and tar.

Castiel was moving without the aid of conscious thought. Anger. Deep, profound anger such as he had never experienced was roiling through him, burning in tandem with the surrounding forest. Without considering the consequences, he grabbed at one of Raphael’s wings and pulled, yanked without reserve or mercy. In both size and strength, Castiel could never be anything but the inferior of the two. However, the unprecedented nature of his action and a bitter will, born of fury, gave him a moment’s foothold.

He and Raphael fell backward, collapsing as they tumbled into Heaven’s realm, a writhing tangle of wings and Grace. “You are like a demon,” Castiel found himself crying. “You are like Lucifer. You look like an angel, Raphael, but angels are meant to love. What is there of love in you?” And next he knew, Castiel was bent over Raphael’s form, a blade clutched tight and threateningly against the abruptly still archangel's form. He had no notion of where the blade had come from, but it felt as much a part of him as his abused and aching wings.

Raphael did not move for some time, frozen beneath the point of the knife. But then his self-protective smirk pasted itself back into place and his voice was wheedling. “Did you hear it, Raguel? Sari, do you believe its nerve? Michael will hurl it down for sure this time. Michael! Michael, help! Castiel is wounding me.

And the small child with the shiny blade was crushed beneath the weight of wrath as the Lord of Heaven appeared.

“Take him to the Earth if that is what he wishes.” Michael’s words pierced and shook the very composition of Heaven’s walls. “Take him down and pen him above the Fallen. Let him see what happens to those who rebel against my word, against our Father.”

 

[1] Enochian – Translates as ‘Slimy thing made of dust’

[2] Enochian – Translates as ‘The unspeakable amongst us’


	3. Childhood: The Devil in the Red Room

# Chapter 03

# Childhood: The Devil in the Red Room

 

“God will punish her… Say your prayers, Miss Eyre, when you are by yourself; for if you don’t repent, something bad might be permitted to come down the chimney and fetch you away.”

**Jane Eyre, Chapter 2**

 

~

 

 **LUCIFER** : What a peculiar thing you are... We're on the same side, like it or not, so why not just serve your own best interests? Which in this case just happen to be mine?

 **CASTIEL** : I'll die first.

 **LUCIFER** : I suppose you will.

**Supernatural: 5x10 – Abandon All Hope**

 

~

 

Castiel awoke from darkness just in time to see the ring of fire ahead and to know what it meant. He struggled, unthinking, savage, wild to get away. He had suffered all previous forms of punishment with as quiet an air as his will would allow, but now terror made him crazed. Madness descended and he longed for the bright blade he had so briefly held. He struck; he keened and flailed against the two angels dragging him closer to the flames, forcing them to grapple with him despite their larger forms. “Balthazar, please. Please! Balthazar! Bartholomew, please let me go. Stop!”

“Castiel, what's gotten into you?” Balthazar’s habitually suave voice was cut with a concern that attempted to hide itself behind scorn. “Mucking around in the Axis again? Walking on the Earth? Conjuring your blade against Raphael? You know there’s nothing I can do to get you out of the mess you’ve made this time. Just count your blessings that it's the fire and that Michael didn’t decide to smite you on the spot.”

The flames dipped low enough for Michael’s personal aides to shove Castiel roughly forward, then the ring of holy fire leapt high once more to surround him. He shrunk back, its heat, its physical pulse so far from the delight of sensation that he had recently experienced on this plain. Balthazar and Bartholomew stood gazing down at him, Balthazar wearing a disappointed attitude, Bartholomew a disdainful one.

“Why can’t you just please the archangels?” Balthazar asked, puzzled and exasperated. “You live in luxury. The rest of us have jobs to do, work that keeps us from doing other things we might like. But you? You have no duties, no work. You live in paradise with the best of our kind. Your only job is to be obedient to the archangels. Why can’t you do it?”

“The child is naturally evil, that’s why,” replied Bartholomew into Castiel’s petrified, furious silence. “They say it was Lucifer’s favourite before the Fall, puny as it was. Lucifer destroyed every one of its nest-mates, but he left this little demon with angelic wings alive because he recognised in it a fellow creature. Michael took it and raised it with the archangels to try and correct its natural defects, but it seems that no amount of mercy can save it from itself.” He fixed Castiel with a hateful glare. "Repent of the evil inside you, young traitor, or Michael will send you down to join your fallen master."

"Michael says you're to stay here all night," continued Balthazar with less ire and greater sympathy, "But I'll return before the dawn and take you home. Try and keep calm until then, Cassie." With that they departed and left Castiel imprisoned directly over the entrance to Lucifer's cage.

For a time, fury kept fear at bay. Livid anger animated Castiel, exhibiting passion as he never had before. Feathers snapped. Frustrated, screaming cries tore themselves from him and crashed into the distance, his mind unable to follow beyond the fiery circle and ensure they did no harm. The injustice, the unfairness of his situation rolled over him as if it were a new occurrence, not the pattern in which his whole life had taken place. Permanently outcast, ostracised for faults he could not identify.

Raphael defied Michael's edicts continually, blatantly. He was dissatisfied, discontent, easily irritated by even the simplest tasks and bored by the general business of the Reeds’ inner sanctum. He tormented the inmates of Heaven's prison simply because they were captive and helpless to resist. He punished servants and lesser angels for minor errors in understanding his countless commands. He disrespected God's creation, God's words, God's plans, and yet he was Michael's favourite, coddled close and dear as even Sariel and Raguel were not. Conversely, Castiel kept the very letter of every law laid down. He rushed to obey, hurried to give satisfaction where he could and yet he was never brought near, was never named _family_ , was forever relegated to stand on the edges in ignominy. All because of one story and his inability to follow one amongst a hundred-thousand rules.

Keep out of the Axis Mundi.

Stay away from humans.

It sounded so simple, a command repeated at him by Michael often enough that it felt engraved upon his Grace, and yet it was seemingly impossible to follow. Again and again he found himself drawn back. He would swear to keep his distance, to be obedient, to do as Michael asked and temper his fascination with the incandescent souls of humanity. He would swear and mean it as he swore, but it was never long before he found himself once more upon that grey and windswept shore, caught between the sea and an ever growing line of doors.

Maybe he was evil. Maybe that was why he could not stay away. Was it true, the story they told about him and Lucifer, the one that everyone knew and that Bartholomew so loved to repeat? Would he be here now if it were not? Why else would Michael have taken in an angel so far beneath himself and his brothers? Castiel was corrupted by Lucifer and must either be cured or killed. Everyone knew the story. Castiel had no memory of it happening, no inkling of ever having seen Lucifer himself, much less of having been his spared and venerated pet. Still, he had been very young in the days when Lucifer had walked free. It was possible that his memory was at fault.

The direction of these thoughts finally forced Castiel to take note of exactly where he stood, his boiling rage flagging away into fear. He was over the Cage. Nothing extraordinary marked the Earth here, at least nothing more extraordinary than that wonder which all Creation shared: glory imparted by the very hand of God. The ground was flat and featureless, untempered by trees or rivers or cliffs. Rolling prairie land undulated in cascading waves from horizon to horizon. Castiel longed to cast his senses further, to see what lay beyond that line, to feel cool air drift across his form. Instead he stood confined, both body and mind, encased in awful heat and unable to appreciate the smallest particle of the surrounding, physical tranquillity as panic began to claim him. This place might be comparatively unremarkable in appearance, but below him, through dirt and fire and a whole metaphysical plain, Lucifer now waited. Lucifer. Lucifer who had torn apart Heaven, who had turned on his brothers. Lucifer, most evil, most hated, most dreadful poison ever loosed upon the world. Lucifer who had apparently cherished Castiel as his own, honoured creature.

Could Lucifer see through the walls of his Cage? Did he know that a small and hopeless angel now quivered so close to his grasp? Could he whisper through the keyhole? Could he reach out and snatch? If the stories were true then Castiel had reason to believe that the Morning Star might meet him with fondness, maybe even with kindness. Might it be worth it, to sacrifice goodness for acceptance? No. Castiel might crave connection, but this, having his loneliness ended through any intervention of Lucifer’s made him tremble and sick.

He heard a noise and flinched. A cry. A call? Distant and far. Night air shifted and he huddled in on himself more firmly. Surely it was a bird, perhaps some strange creature wandering amongst the tall grasses. It came again, whispering through the night air and Castiel whimpered low and desperate. This could not be, surely such a thing would not be allowed to happen.

" _You?_ ” No. Please, Father, no. “ _Little one, is that you?_ " That voice. It sent terror leaching into Castiel's very essence, dimming his Grace to a fitful flicker. He wanted to faint, wanted to fade. At that moment, Castiel wished very much that he could die. " _Come now, I know you can hear me._ " The words were gentle, coaxing, almost playful. " _Little brother, you know it's rude to ignore your elders. Come on, tell me what you're doing here. Is it time for my release already? Did you persuade Big Brother to forgive me?_ "

"No." Castiel never knew how he managed to form the word. "No. They will never let you go." Shrieking panic was overpowering him, consuming him; it swallowed him whole. He curled himself still smaller, pressed himself as close to the edge of the circle as the flames would allow. How long had he yearned to hear another angel call him 'brother' and now the Devil himself was claiming him as kin?

" _’Never’ is a terribly long time, my dear_ ," came the appalling, soothing voice again. " _You're still young. Don't despair, Brother. You'll find a way one day. I have faith in you even if others don't._ "

"No. No." It seemed the only word repeating in Castiel's mind, his Grace and all that he was made of shrinking in towards his core. There was a part of him that wanted to give up, part of him deep and buried which craved that voice, that seduction, that coiling thing like love which wound itself around him, echoing up from uncountable depths he could never know. That part of him was hungry and lonesome, yet the rest of him fled from that oily touch with pure, unabashed horror. "I will never set you free. I'll die first. I never want to help you."

" _Oh, Sweetheart._ " The voice now sounded genuinely pained, so earnestly concerned, caressing him even as Castiel's Grace squeezed itself down to a single, agonised point and pulled his consciousness into silence and blackness. " _Sweetheart, what has Michael done to you?_ "


	4. Adolescence: Before the Throne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel speaks.

# Chapter 04 – Adolescence: Before the Throne

 

Speak I must: I had been trodden on severely, and must turn: but how? What strength had I to dart retaliation at my antagonist?

**Jane Eyre, Chapter 4**

 

~

 

**RAPHAEL** : It's God's will.

**CASTIEL** : How can you say that?

**RAPHAEL** : Because it's what I want.

**CASTIEL** : Well, the other angels won't let you.

**RAPHAEL** : Are you sure? You know better than anyone, Castiel. They're soldiers. They weren't built for freedom. They were built to follow.

**CASTIEL** : Then I won't let you.

**RAPHAEL** : Really? You?

**SUPERNATURAL: 6x20 – The Man Who Would Be King**

 

~

 

When Castiel next became aware of his surroundings, it was to the dim glow of red light. His mind skipped and skittered, jolting from a dense void into wakefulness and hurling itself all at once into the urgent alarm of frantic self-defence. In that moment, red light could only mean one thing: Hellfire.

Instinct moved him, carrying him away from the red glow until he was crouched in a far corner, blade appearing mysteriously once more in his grip. An angel he had never met before stood opposite, leaning over the space he must have just been lain upon. A pinkish red light was fading from the angel’s Grace, the flicker of surprise in its expression returning rapidly to a placid acceptance. It did not seem likely to attack immediately, but Castiel held the blade in front of him, hoping he presented a more intimidating figure than he felt. “What are you doing here?” he asked, trying to sound unflappable and fierce. “What were you about to do to me?”

The angel’s expression did not waver as it replied, “Relieve you of your sufferings, naturally. You showed no signs of recovering and you are in such pain. I am under instructions to smite you and release you from your agony.”

It took Castiel several moments to regain control of his voice after hearing this pronouncement. “Well, I am recovered now. I am not suffering any pain.” This was not true in the strictest sense. The ache in his wings had turned to a prickling stab, indicating the regrowth of his flight feathers was imminent. There was also a dull numbness hanging heavy through his Grace and making it harder than he felt it should have been to hold the blade steady. Still, he gripped it tighter and thrust it out more prominently before him. “Clearly, I do not require your services, so give me your name and your rank and leave me be, Brother.”

“Ephraim,” responded the angel, still without emotion, moving gradually forward. “Rit Zien, Healer and Hand of Mercy. Castiel, you are lying to me. I have rarely felt such pain in any creature, let alone an angel. You are a child and it is true that the injuries to your form are minor, but your spirit… Castiel, let me help you. I promise, it will be painless.”

“Do not touch me.” Castiel rose to his full height and pointed the gleaming knife directly at the angel. “I want to live.”

“But as what?” Ephraim asked. “The misery you feel is not the product of a single day nor a single experience. You hate the life you lead and yet there is no better one to be hoped for by any angel.”

“Perhaps not in your opinion,” said Castiel, “but I would give much to live anywhere but here,” for it had slowly dawned on him that he was once more back in the Reeds, back in the golden chamber set aside for him away from the archangels' quarters.

“You wish to leave, to not live in the Reeds?” And now Ephraim did truly sound surprised, disbelief tinging every word. “And that would ease your pain? That would give you peace?”

“Yes,” said Castiel, his voice dropping to a fervent whisper. “Yes, that is all I want.”

“I see.” Ephraim at last stood back and tension drained from Castiel in a long, exhausted rush. “Then I shall make my recommendation to Michael that you should be sent away, perhaps for training.” He gestured at the knife now resting at Castiel’s side. “You seem to have an affinity for your blade. It is not every angel that has one and still fewer that can conjure it while still so young. Tell me, Castiel, how would you feel about becoming a soldier?”

~

After that, events moved rapidly, although Castiel had little awareness of them until later. A panicked lethargy clung to him doggedly. His mind continually attempted to revisit the night and the ring of holy fire, to hearing that soft voice, to listen to its hushing, airy words, but every time he noticed the wanderings of his thoughts he tugged them back and buried himself in deliberate blankness. He would not think of that voice, refused to remember its words or to deliberate upon their possible meanings. Instead, he encouraged a thoughtless routine to overtake his actions. He never strayed beyond his own quarters at Michael’s command; he saw only Balthazar, the angel stopping by during the performance of his other duties to ensure that his charge remained well. Instead, Castiel spent much of his time examining the blade, turning it over and over until he knew its every glint and line. It felt intricately bound to him in much the same way as his wings. He did not love it - one does not love a limb unless one loses it - but he found himself curiously unable to let the blade go. He held it close at all times, discovered how he could call it into and out of his Grace as if it were part of himself made deadly. The blade had come to him twice when he needed it and that was more than could be said of any living creature.

When the summons came to wait upon Michael, it was only the memory of Ephraim’s promise, that he would recommend Castiel’s departure from the Reeds, that gave him the strength to approach the central courtyard.

“Here is the child I told you of.” Michael was already speaking as Castiel entered the iridescent light of the Presence Chamber, the place where so many angels had come to wait attendance upon the Lord of Heaven. It was but a small part of Michael’s personal suite and adjoined the very Throne Room of God. Crossing its threshold into searching, blinding light never became any less disquieting. “His disposition is weak and resistant to chastisement,” continued the archangel, addressing the single bowing figure before him, “but I believe entrusting him to your tutelage, Zachariah, must either improve him or eradicate him. At this time, I am content with either outcome.”

The other angel, Zachariah, bowed still lower before Michael’s throne, then ran a probing eye over Castiel who stood to one side, hunched and mute with horror. Castiel had hoped that if he were allowed to embark upon a new phase of existence that he might be permitted to enter it without the old opinions and prejudices of the Reeds pursuing him. It appeared that such hopes had been in vain. Michael was apparently determined that all Heaven should hold the same opinion of Castiel as he did: as a profane creature, almost indistinguishable from the demonic or the fallen, whose salvation might only be found through the purifying brutality of isolation.

Zachariah’s expression was a flat and sculpted mask, deferential and humble under the archangel’s stern gaze, yet as Castiel observed him closely in return, arrogance and cruelty flickered below the surface of a smirk: monsters lurking below a level sea. “As always, My Lord, you are quite correct,” Zachariah replied, still seeming to catalogue every aspect of Castiel’s form and finding nothing to approve of there. “There are certain characters one can only correct with harsh training. That is exactly what the Garrison provides: strict discipline for troublesome angels and an expendable force to deal with the ever growing demon issue.”

“It is what I want. He should be made pliant and meek,” said Michael, speaking as if unaware that Castiel was near, then moving his eyes to freeze the young angel in place. “His greatest fault is that of disobedience, a wilful flouting of the rules so blatant that it blasphemes the very nature of angel-kind. I say this in Zachariah’s hearing, child, so you may not seek to deceive him or try your violent ways outside of his command.”

“We’ll keep him under vigilant watch, My Lord, never fear. He will be made useful and compliant. We will weed out blasphemy from his young, corrupted Grace, I assure you. Tell me, Youngling,” he said, now looking fully at Castiel for the first time, “Do you know who Lucifer is?”

Castiel felt a jolt of paranoid revulsion spike through his core, as though just the name could draw the Devil’s attention to Heaven’s door. He wrestled with his fear and forced his voice to remain dispassionate as he spoke. Guilt must not be written anywhere upon him that others might see. “He is a fallen angel, Sir.”

“And where is he now?” asked Zachariah, falling into the patronising cadence of an unpleasant teacher.

“In a cage.”

“And do you know what his crime was, child, to gain such a punishment?”

Castiel paused for a moment, unsure which of Lucifer’s many blasphemies Zachariah wished him to list, but suspecting that he could guess from the tenor of this interrogation. “Disobedience, Sir.”

“And should you like to share his fate, being trapped forever in a pit of fire?”

“No, Sir.”

“Then how should you avoid it?”

Again Castiel paused to think. “I must not follow any inclinations I may develop, Sir, instructing me to destroy the world.”

Zachariah’s surprise lasted only a moment. He turned at once and bowed almost to the ground as he prostrated himself before Michael, dreadful anticipation and self-satisfied piety painting themselves across his features before smoothing out into obsequious humility. “I’ll go now, My Lord, and inform my colleagues to expect a new, especially unbalanced recruit. Send the child to us as soon as you please.” He left in a rustling of wings and Michael and Castiel were left alone together.

A long, dragging pause filled the courtyard during which one stared up at the throne whilst the other refused to notice. At last, without moving his gaze in Castiel’s direction, Michael said, “Return to your quarters. I shall send Balthazar to escort you to the training grounds presently.”

Castiel, habitually obedient, turned to go, halted and then came back.

Now, Michael did glance in his direction, glare hard and unfeeling. “I said ‘leave’. Will you return to your rooms willingly or will you shame yourself further and force me to have you dragged back?”

Castiel stood rooted, unable to leave, but incapable of finding words to encompass the emotions churning within him. He had tried; he had tried so hard for as long as he could remember and this was all the reward he was to expect: sent away without regret, without a single parting word and with only animosity sent ahead along his path. He must speak now, but he could scarcely frame his thoughts. Words seem to burst at last from a long-silent place inside of him, one that had little to do with the calm, reasoned logic he generally preferred, but one that was intimately connected to a fire buried deep within his nature.

“I am not blasphemous,” he said loudly into the courtyard. “If I were, I should call you 'a good angel', but you are not. Angels were made to love and to defend those in need, to do the work of our Father and to see His will done. You have corrupted what it means to be angelic. Now our Father’s will is forgotten; angels are just tools to fashion the whim of archangels. There is no love in Heaven, Michael, only fear, and if you wish to see blasphemy then look at your favourite brother Raphael for it is he that disobeys our mission and seeks to denigrate what our Father has made, not I.”

Now, Michael’s full attention rested on him like the weight of a frozen ocean, drowning him in power and icy strain. “Do you have anything else to say, child?” he asked, in deceptively flat tones.

“I am glad you have never called me ‘brother’,” Truths Castiel had previously never let himself contemplate now poured from his mind like rain from the sky, “For I will never call you ‘family’ again. Even Lucifer whispering from his Pit has more of God in him than you, more faith and more feeling.”

“How dare you make such an accusation?” Michael cried, fury bursting from him to send Castiel stumbling.

“How dare I? Because it is the truth. One minute’s conversation with Lucifer proved it beyond doubt, a conversation that you forced me to endure when you imprisoned me above him because I objected to Raphael venting his petulance upon the beauty of our Father’s creation. In one minute’s talk with Lucifer, I witnessed more concern, more genuine respect and warmth in him than I have ever seen in you. If I were truly blasphemous then I would commit my life to seeing him freed and set upon your throne, but I trust our Father’s word and judgement, and will still fight with everything I have to keep the Cage closed.” He held Michael’s eye and knew by speaking he had placed his life under a swordsman's blade. “Our Father can see you and so can your brother Lucifer, no matter where you lock him. They know what you have done to Heaven and they will judge you as you deserve. Send me away, Michael, for I hate to live near you.”

There was a pause during which Castiel tasted his own death and knew that the archangel was on the point of obliterating him with a flick of his wings. Then it passed. Michael breathed, “I will indeed send him far away,” as if to himself. At last, the Lord of Heaven rose from his dais and departed the courtyard without a backwards glance. Castiel was left completely alone, victor of the hardest battle he had ever fought.


End file.
